


Vows

by mirrorballsymphony



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, First Dance, Gen, Wedding Rings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:53:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorballsymphony/pseuds/mirrorballsymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sybil and Sam finally get to have a wedding, though there are some surprises in store..</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vows

Colon spat on his handkerchief and gave Vimes’s face a rub to try and remove the worst of the dirt. All it did was move the dirt into a different position.

 

The Archchancellor arrived with a bowl of hot water and a bar of soap, and Vimes seized it gratefully. He dunked his whole head into the scalding bucket whilst the Archchancellor winced, and in doing so got soap in both eyes.

 

‘Aarg!’ he managed to say, which communicated to Colon: ‘Give me the towel or you die, sergeant’. He hastily passed it over, and stepped back as Vimes rose up, dripping suds like some underwater bath monster.

 

Finally, Vimes was able to open his stinging eyes and look at both of them, standing in clothes much cleaner than his by far. ‘Do you have a suit?’ he asked apprehensively, not knowing if the wizards dealt much with normal clothing.

 

The Archchancellor handed over…something. It was fabric, as far as he could tell from the odd glimpse of material between the sequins and gemstones and glitter, but it was bright red and yellow striped.

 

‘No,’ he said, handing it back. ‘I’ll just wash off my breastplate as best I can.’

 

‘I brought some clothes from the watch house, sir,’ Fred said, holding up a pile of something that was definitely fabric and a reassuring brown colour. ‘Just in case.’

 

‘And this is why you’re best man, Fred.’

 

‘Thanks, sir.’

 

As Vimes ducked into an alleyway to remove his drain-encrusted uniform, which he left there so that Ron could use it if he wanted to, he became aware of a whispered conversation between Colon and the Archchancellor.

 

_‘Do you think he’ll hold up?’_

_‘Well, he’s gonna have to. She’s already at the altar, isn’t she?’_

_‘No, Colon. She’s waiting for him to be at the altar. Don’t you remember your own marriage?’_

_‘Not really. It had been a good stag do.’_

 

Vimes emerged, feeling slightly cleaner but only marginally less tired. ‘How’s my hair?’

 

‘A bit spiky, sir. Do you want to wet it down a bit?’

 

Vimes did so, and managed to soak the collar of his shirt.

 

‘Do you want some product?’ the Archchancellor asked.

 

Vimes turned round slowly. ‘Do I _look_ like a man who uses product, Archchancellor?’

 

‘Occasionally, Vimes, you don’t look like you use soap.’

 

Vimes decided to ignore that. ‘Shall we?’

 

‘Um, do you know what you’re doing, Sam?’

 

‘No. I was sort of hoping that you would.’ Colon looked slightly uncomfortable in his dress uniform, and Vimes tried to remember the last time that they had worn it. It must have been ten years or more, and whilst Colon had always been slightly stocky ten years of desk duty had taken its toll.

 

‘Archchancellor, do you know what you’re doing?’ he tried.

 

‘The Dean showed me the order of service.’

 

‘That’s a no, then. Come on.’

 

As they walked through the back alleys to the university Vimes felt a strange sort of calm. He was getting married, something he never thought he would do but somehow he had ended up doing. It was something completely unexpected, he was fairly sure that no one else had thought that he would end up married to the richest woman in the city, so there was no protocol for this. He could screw up and no one would be able to say, ‘this isn’t how it goes’. The whole thing wasn’t how it usually goes.

 

The Archchancellor gestured to a tiny door in the wall, disguised with layers of moss and grey paint. ‘In you go, cap-sorry, Sam. Modo won’t mind us going over the lawn.’

 

In fact, Modo did mind them going over the lawn; hobnailed boots played havoc with the lawn he had spent 500 years cultivating. However, he had heard that some of the younger wizards had had some new-fangled idea where tools were bewitched to do the gardening rather than having to pay him to do it, and was slightly scared about protesting against anything now.

 

They reached the Great Hall, and Vimes could sense the restlessness from the doorway. It wasn’t fair, the people were saying, we didn’t even want to come, we only did because we were invited and you _never_ turn down an invite from the richest woman in the city. Plus, there was free food. And now the groom doesn’t have the common decency to turn up on time…

 

Vimes entered, and they fell silent.

 

‘Sorry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘You know how it is. Comes with the job.’

 

The crowd nodded. Yes, you could exclude a captain of the Watch for being late. Probably chasing criminals over rooftops or dealing with a particularly difficult serial killer.

 

They then thought: _When did we last hear about a serial killer?_

 

Then: _Well, obviously the Watch is dealing with them._

The crowd sighed. _Serial killers were better then._ *

 

The Dean cleared his throat, which, because he was a large man, echoed around the room. The crowd fell silent.

 

Vimes was watching the doors at the end of the aisle, noticing how the carvings on them were slightly darker than the rest of the wood, which must mean that they were stuck on after the doors were made. He wondered why anyone would go to that bother, then reminded himself of the suit that Ridcully had tried to press upon him and the current attire of most of the wizards who were making up for the rest of the audience’s plain blues or pinks. _They_ obviously weren’t trying hard enough.

 

He became aware that his concentration was drifting, and snapped back into focus as the doors creaked open.

 

Sybil appeared.

 

She wasn’t Lady Ramkin, or even Lady Sybil now, she was just Sybil. The titles had never quite fitted her anyway, but now, before him wearing a white dress which must have taken an entire roomful of silk worms to produce and weeks to stitch on all the little pearls, she was just Sybil.

 

She was smiling nervously and trying to stop her Uncle Lofthouse clucking like a chicken as he tripped daintily down the aisle in front of her. As she reached the front she sat him down on a chair, gave him a necklace to play with and smiled apologetically at him. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

 

He grinned at her. ‘I thought the nurse said he was better.’

 

‘I think she was wrong.’

 

They both turned to look at the unfortunate Uncle Lofthouse, who had inherited every single Ramkin crazy gene, of which there were many, and was engrossed in Sybil’s string of pearls, counting them methodically. For a second, Vimes was slightly concerned about the possibility of one of his children being like that.

 

Then he realised that he was thinking about _children_.

 

The Dean cleared his throat again and Vimes span around to face the front doors again. Sybil stood beside him.

 

‘The bride and groom have requested that we sing no hymns,’ the Dean said. The whole room gave an audible sigh of relief. ‘However,’ he squinted at the piece of paper, ‘someone’s written here that you are free to sing later on in the evening when-’

 

‘Don’t say that!’ Vimes hissed, glancing at Nobby who was grinning wickedly under his oversized helmet.

 

‘Sorry, sorry. Anyway, we’d better get on.’ He cleared his throat, and when he spoke it was in the voice of a middle age aristocratic woman, having re-read _Lady Deidre Waggon’s Book of Etiquette_ the night before. ‘We are here today,’ he trilled, ‘for the marriage of Lady Sybil Deidre Olgivanna Ramkin and Samuel Vimes. If anyone has any reason why these two people should not be married, please speak now.’

 

Colon managed to get Nobby in a headlock before he did anything stupid.

 

‘Excellent,’ the Dean said, looking around. ‘It’s always nice when that doesn’t create any responses. Right, I believe now that the bride and groom say something to each other now.’

 

The Archchancellor something whispered in his ear. ‘Oh, yes, the vows. Are they prepared?’

 

Sybil looked questioningly at Vimes. He sighed. ‘Look, dear, they were in the pocket of my other breeches which are probably now sold to some unsuspecting tourist by Foul Ole Ron. Do you mind if I make them up?’

 

She raised her eyebrows, grinning. ‘I think they’re probably just the _right_ vows, actually. And mine were burnt by Lord Winsborough the First this morning, so do you mind if I make mine up too?’

 

‘Shall those just be our vows?’

 

She shrugged. ‘Sure. And I love you.’

 

‘Love you too.’ Vimes smiled at her.

 

The Dean looked disappointed. ‘That’s it? No romance, no fluffy babies and golden clouds?’ The Archchancellor elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Are you sure that’s the wrong way round? No, I’m not going to speak more quietly!’

 

Sybil and Sam sighed as one, then caught one another’s eye and tried not to laugh.

 

‘Fine. Fine. Who’s got the rings?’

 

‘Colon?’ Vimes called. Colon walked to the front awkwardly, trying to get the box out of the front of his breastplate. Finally, he handed over a slightly squashed box which, when opened, contained a simplistic golden ring.

 

Gently, he slipped it onto Sybil’s finger. Unlike his best man’s breastplate, it fit perfectly. Sybil lifted another box from the depths of her skirt, having not given it to her uncle for obvious reasons, and did the same.

 

‘You may now kiss the bride,’ the Dean proclaimed, really getting into the swing of things now.

 

Vimes looked at his wife, stared into her loving eyes, and gently leaned forward.

 

 

* * *

 *The thinking capacity of a crowd is the IQ of the slowest person divided by the number of people in the room. In this room, especially as Rincewind had turned up, it was probably in the minus numbers or had Maths Error printed all over it.

* * *

 

 

It was afterwards. Alcohol had happened to other people.

 

Carrot and Angua had slipped in amongst the multitudes, and after a couple of minutes Vimes figured out exactly why the girl was now walking around when he had seen her shot four times. He was also trying to work out exactly what the relationship between the corporal and the lance-constable was, but decided not to pry. A wise man didn’t make enquiries.

 

The band, who had been resolutely playing despite the rising noise as Ankh-Morpork’s finest became more and more inebriated, suddenly stopped. The room stopped with them.

 

‘First dance,’ someone called.

 

‘Ye gods,’ Vimes murmered, looking at Sybil. ‘Do we have to?’

 

‘Yes, Sam. It’s tradition.’

 

‘I don’t like tradition,’ he grumbled.

 

‘Tough.’

 

Moving slowly through the crowd and hampered slightly by the mass of Sybil’s dress, Vimes cursed whoever’s idea it was to make a couple who had just got married, with all the terror that it induced, go up onto a dance floor and prance about. Thankfully, before he had started to voice these opinions, they reached the stage and the band struck up a new song.

 

It was the Hedgehog Song.

 

‘Do you like it?’ Sybil asked hesitantly. Behind her, he could see Angua duck behind a pillar in hysterics, and he shot her the _I am your boss_ glare.

 

‘ _You_ planned this?’

 

‘Yes. I thought, seeing as we were talking about tradition, this would be appropriate.’

 

‘You know the _Hedgehog_ Song? _You_?’

 

‘I can recite it,’ she told him, winking.

 

‘I think I’d have to arrest you,’ Vimes said truthfully. ‘Why don’t we just dance?’

 

It was surprisingly difficult to dance to the Hedgehog Song. For one thing, it was very fast and Vimes was not a practiced dancer. Neither was Sybil, as it turned out.

 

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, after the tenth time he stood on her toes.

 

‘S’alright,’ she said, giggling. ‘We can probably stop now, there are other people up here.’

 

‘Damn. I was enjoying that.’

 

‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

 

‘You guess.’

 

Vimes stopped, relieved, and led Sybil through the couples and her Uncle Lofthouse until they reached stable ground and seats. They sat there for a while, watching the carnage.

 

‘Who’s that girl with Carrot?’ Sybil enquired.

 

‘She’s Angua. You know, the werewolf we recruited?’

 

‘Ah, I remember. She looks just like her mother.’ Sybil considered that. ‘Except she looks friendly.’

 

‘Very friendly towards Carrot,’ Vimes said, reaching behind him to pick a pork pie off the buffet.

 

‘What happened to that seamstress he was going out with?’

 

Vimes nearly choked on the pork pie. ‘Carrot? _Seamstress_?’

 

‘They were going out for what, a couple of months. I presume they’ve stopped now. Carrot doesn’t seem like that sort of person, to be honest.’

 

‘I doubt he’d understand the whole concept. And Angua would gut him.’

 

‘Fair point.’

 

They watched the twirling, stumbling dancers with some glee that it wasn’t them. ‘See that woman over there?’ Sybil asked, pointing. ‘Well, the man she’s dancing with is her husband’s brother.’

 

‘Where’s her husband?’

 

Sybil glanced around. ‘Over there, by the whiskey cabinet. He’s her first cousin.’

 

Vimes shook his head. The upper class had some funny ways.

 

Suddenly, he stood up and offered his hand to Sybil. ‘Come on.’

 

‘Where are we going?’

 

‘You’ll see’. He tugged on Sybil’s hand and she followed him to the back door. As he opened it a gust of warm summer air flowed into the room, and he led her outside into the garden.

 

They entered the evening sunshine which was turning the sky into gold, matching the ring on Sybil’s finger, and illuminating the leaves, giving the garden a yellow glow.

 

 _Our garden_ , Vimes thought.

 

He lifted Sybil’s chin and turned her face towards him. He was struck by how beautiful she looked.

 

‘I love you,’ he told her.

 

She smiled, and as her lips curved he kissed them.


End file.
